by Lisa Smedman
“That explanation rings hollow,” Cavatina said. “The only time you can’t let go of an attuned weapon—be it magical or mundane—is during the actual attunement itself. The ensorcelments on the Crescent Blade are extremely powerful, but the same rules would apply.”
“I suspected as much.”
“You’re overlooking one possible motivation,” Cavatina continued. “Pride. The high priestess has decreed that she will be the one to kill Lolth, when that time comes. If she hands over the Crescent Blade to anyone else, especially long enough for a magical study to be made of it, she might miss her chance at glory.”
There. It was said. Not so long ago, Cavatina might have spoken the words with bitterness, but the boil of anger and jealousy that had festered inside her for years had been lanced by her redemption. Now she spoke calmly and with detachment. Even so, she said a silent prayer of contrition, asking Eilistraee to forgive her for casting doubt on the high priestess’s character.
Rylla met Cavatina’s eyes. “We both know that’s not the reason.”
Cavatina nodded. “What, then?”
“You carried the Crescent Blade. Fought with it. Did it ever … communicate with you?”
“You’re asking me if it’s an intelligent weapon. The answer is yes. The Crescent Blade spoke to me.”
“Did it ever say anything … odd?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did it ever urge you to do something rash? To take on opponents you couldn’t or shouldn’t fight?”
Cavatina laughed. “I wanted to kill Selvetarm, believe me.” Then she shook her head. “On the other hand, the weapon did seem … proud. Boastful. It talked as if it had killed Selvetarm all on its own.”
Rylla stared directly into Cavatina’s eyes. “Did it compel you to kill Selvetarm?”
“No. It wasn’t like that. Not at all.”
“Did you feel any sort of compulsion while holding the Crescent Blade?”
“No. Well, yes, actually, but not until after I’d returned to the Promenade. When the high priestess commanded me to give the Crescent Blade to her, I didn’t want to let go of it.”
“But you gave it to her.”
Cavatina bristled. It sounded like an accusation. “She ordered me to.”
Rylla sighed. “I didn’t call you here to try and find fault with you. I summoned you to the Promenade because I’m worried. I think the Crescent Blade may be the cause of our high priestess’s recent … outbursts. Her orders have been rather abrupt lately, and she’s been less than forthcoming about the rationale behind them.”
“She is the high priestess,” Cavatina countered. “Eilistraee’s Chosen. As such, she’s not bound to answer to anyone but the goddess for her decisions. She gives orders, and it is our duty to obey.”
“Are they her orders?” Rylla asked.
Cavatina tensed. “Are you implying what I think you are?”
“The Crescent Blade never leaves her hand. Even when it’s sheathed, her hand rests on its hilt.”
“Are you telling me you think the Crescent Blade is controlling the high priestess?”
“I don’t want to speculate. I want to know.” Rylla rose to her feet and paced in a restless circle around the benches. “Describe for me the temple you recovered the Crescent Blade from—the one in the Demonweb Pits.”
Cavatina did.
Rylla listened, interjecting a question here and there.
“Was the temple truly sacred ground?”
“My divinations revealed that it was.”
“And the sword within it?”
Cavatina swallowed. Hard. Though she’d felt the Crescent Blade’s holiness with a certainty as strong as song when she had first entered the temple, a seed of doubt had been planted the instant she read the inscription on the mended blade. Yet despite the broken inscription, the Crescent Blade hadn’t failed her. It had severed Selvetarm’s neck, exactly as it had been forged to do.
Of course, that was what Lolth had intended, all along. Halisstra had admitted as much. And it had been Halisstra who had led Cavatina to that temple. Halisstra the traitor. She’d pretended she was acting of her own volition—that she was seeking redemption—but she’d been the Spider Queen’s foil, all along, little better than a web-snared fly.
“My divination revealed nothing amiss with the Crescent Blade,” Cavatina answered at last.
Rylla waited. “But?” she prompted.
“But now I’m not so sure.”
It was true. Until this moment, Cavatina had thought sacrificing Selvetarm was the extent of the Spider Queen’s plot. But now she wondered if Lolth’s schemes went even deeper than that. Soon after Cavatina had claimed the Crescent Blade, it had spoken to her.
You’re not the one, it had said.
Had Lolth anticipated that Qilué would eventually claim the weapon for herself? Was the reforged Crescent Blade part of some trap that even now was springing shut? Was the weapon somehow goading Qilué toward a battle she would lose—a battle in which the Crescent Blade would fail her?
Until today, Cavatina’s faith in Qilué’s mastery of magic had been unshakeable. But now doubt crowded close.
Halisstra was the key to all of this. Cavatina was certain of it.
Cavatina’s thoughts kept circling back to the last time she’d seen Halisstra. Where the fallen priestess was now was anyone’s guess. After delivering Cavatina into the hands of the balor Wendonai, Halisstra had disappeared. She’d been spotted—briefly—by Kâras and Leliana during the battle atop the Acropolis. Then she’d vanished again.
Had she returned to Wendonai? If so, she’d have found nothing but a corpse. Wendonai had died on Cavatina’s sword—albeit without the usual explosive aftermath. His body had remained intact after his death, as if its animating force had gone … somewhere else.
Suddenly, Cavatina realized where it might have gone. Into the Crescent Blade. That would explain how a dretch had wound up inside the High House. Wendonai could have summoned it—right under Qilué’s nose—from within the Crescent Blade, just before the high priestess departed on her inspection tour.
It also explained the holy water Meryl had been carrying. Qilué herself must have suspected something was wrong with the weapon. She was trying to banish the demon—without, Cavatina suspected, much success.
Carefully, never once mentioning Qilué by name, Cavatina outlined her fears. She concluded with a recap of the conversation she’d had with the halfling, just before the dretch made its appearance.
Rylla’s lips tightened. “What can we do?”
“If it’s only the sword that’s possessed, we can banish the demon back to the Abyss. If the possession has gone further …” Cavatina took a deep breath.
Rylla’s eyes widened. “Eilistraee grant it’s not as bad as that!”
“An exorcism is something best dealt with here, where Eilistraee’s presence is strongest,” Cavatina said. “But it will need sufficient preparation. How long will it be before the high priestess returns?”
“A tenday, at least.”
Cavatina nodded. “All arrangements will have to be made in secret. If a demon has taken control of the high priestess, we won’t want to tip our hand.”
Rylla’s face was gray with strain. “This shouldn’t go beyond the walls of this room. It could cause a crisis of faith. One that could cost us dearly.”
“Agreed,” Cavatina said. She stared grimly at the font. “There’s one thing I don’t understand. Why would Eilistraee have permitted something evil to fall into the hands of her Chosen?”
“She wouldn’t have,” Rylla said firmly. “Unless …” She turned away—but not before Cavatina saw the pained look in her eyes.
“What? Say what you’re thinking!”
“There are whispers. About what happened when the realms of Eilistraee and Vhaeraun were joined. If they’re true, it might not have been Eilistraee who guided the Crescent Blade into the high priestess’s hands.”
C
avatina shivered. Her mouth felt as dry as chalk. To hear such blasphemy—and from the Promenade’s battle-mistress! It was unthinkable.
Rylla gave a chuckle that sounded forced. “Those rumors are nonsense, of course. The Dark Maiden simply shifted the tempo of her dance. She had to, in order to bring the Nightshadows into the fold. Eilistraee still rules, by song and sword. Vhaeraun is dead.”
“By song and sword,” Cavatina echoed, touching the hilt of her weapon. The sword let out a low, soothing hum from deep within its scabbard.
It didn’t help. Cavatina still felt as off balance as a dancer with one leg. If her guess was right—if the demon Wendonai now inhabited the Crescent Blade, and he in turn was corrupting Qilué—the Promenade was in grave danger. She held out her hands. “Sing with me.”
Rylla clasped Cavatina’s arms. Like partners in a frozen dance, they bowed their heads.
Together, they prayed.
Horaldin stopped in front of a door and glanced up and down the corridor. Though singing wafted from elsewhere in the Promenade, this corridor was empty for the moment. He opened the door, stepped through swiftly, and motioned for Cavatina to follow.
He shut the door behind them. This corridor was short, no more than a dozen paces long. It ended in a little-used door of solid black obsidian. The druid grasped the adamantine deadbolt at the side of the door and tugged, but the deadbolt didn’t move. He nodded, as if he’d been expecting this.
Cavatina glanced over his shoulder. There was no lock visible. If the door was locked, it was held shut by magic.
Horaldin touched his fingertips to the door’s glassy surface, closed his eyes, and whispered.
Cavatina tapped one foot impatiently. She’d sought out Horaldin, intending to get him to repeat, word for word, his argument with Qilué, in order to see if the high priestess had said anything telling. Instead of answering her questions directly, Horaldin had insisted on going somewhere “private” where they could talk. Now they were creeping about the Promenade like rogues with looted valuables in their pockets. Cavatina was starting to suspect it wasn’t merely a quest for privacy that had caused Horaldin to lead her this way.
“Horaldin, please. Can’t you just tell me what prompted your argument with—”
Horaldin’s eyes sprang open. “Shh! Don’t say her name! She’ll hear you!”
Cavatina took a deep breath. “I wasn’t about to do that. I was the one who reminded you not to speak her name aloud, remember?”
“I just hope she’s not scrying us,” Horaldin said.
That, Cavatina could agree with. Even though Qilué wouldn’t return to the Promenade for several days, after her inspection tour of the outlying shrines was complete, it wouldn’t hurt to be careful. No matter where Qilué went, she kept a scrying font close at hand.
The thought was even more disturbing when Cavatina admitted to herself that the high priestess was carrying around a sword that could contain a hidden demon.
Horaldin had closed his eyes again, and resumed his divination. Sweat beaded his temples. A wash of Faerzress played briefly on the wall beside him, giving an eerie bluish tint to his already sallow skin. The druid was a moon elf, and thus immune to the Faerzress, else his divination might have been interrupted. His wavy black hair hung in a root-like tangle to his waist, and his fingers were as slender as spider legs. Not a pleasant combination, when you came right down to it. But the druid was utterly loyal to the temple, despite his continued reverence for the Leaflord. As Horaldin so eloquently put it, Eilistraee was the fruit of Arvandor, and Rillifane the guardian of the tree from which she had fallen. Eilistraee planted seeds of hope in the Underdark, and by the Leaflord’s decree, Horaldin’s destiny was to help nurture them.
“The door’s been magically sealed,” he told Cavatina. “By … her.”
“Why would she do that?”
“To prevent me from showing you what’s on the other side of it.”
Cavatina’s skin prickled with anticipation. She rested a hand on her sword hilt. “Can you open the door?”
“Not by normal means. Only the most powerful spellcaster could undo her magic. But there is another way.” Horaldin held his hands in front of him, pressing them together back to back. He whispered a moment, and forced his hands apart. A hole appeared in the middle of the door and gradually widened, as if the obsidian had become as soft as clay and invisible hands were parting it. When the gap was wide enough, Horaldin eased a leg through the hole, ducked, and stepped through the door.
Cavatina followed.
The room beyond was oddly shaped: square, but with one corner that had been cut off diagonally by a wall similar, in its zigzag shape, to a folding screen. In the center of the zigzag wall was another obsidian door—the room’s second exit. This odd configuration gave the room eight “walls”—a significant number. The drow who had inhabited the caverns on the far side of the Sargauth nearly a thousand years ago had once maintained a temple to the Spider Queen here. The temple had been obliterated when Ghaunadaur’s cultists summoned the Ancient One’s minions to the city—an act that had been the city’s downfall.
Centuries of visitations by oozes and slimes had worn down the altar and statue that once stood here. Qilué and her companions had finished the job, smashing what remained to dust and scouring the murals from the walls with holy water. Now all that remained was an empty room.
The former temple could have been a convenient shortcut from the western end of the bridge—located just a few paces beyond the second door—but the priestesses who patrolled the Promenade avoided this place. Cavatina could see why. Even though the room was bare and empty, being in it set her on edge. Now that she lingered in it, she realized the reason why: in all of the Promenade, this was the one spot where silence ruled. Everywhere else, the hymn that constantly flowed out of the Cavern of Song could be heard, if only as a murmur. But in this tainted place, Cavatina couldn’t even hear the rush of water from the nearby river.
“What is it you wanted to show me?” she asked.
Horaldin moved to the corner where the two longest walls met. “This.” He pointed at a glyph that had been painted on the walls, straddling the corner. “The high priestess ordered me to paint it here.”
“Ordered? Was that what your argument was about?”
Horaldin folded his arms across his chest and nodded.
Large as a shield, the glyph was one she didn’t recognize. It looked a little like the protective enchantments elsewhere in the Promenade, but those were silvery red in color and dusted with powdered diamond and opal, while this one had been painted on the walls in shimmering streaks of powdered pearl, held in place by a clear glue that smelled faintly of honey.
“What is it?” she asked.
“An enchantment. Designed to attract those who worship Ghaunadaur. The high priestess said it was a trap that would lure any cultists who venture upriver from Skullport into a room where they might easily be slain.”
Cavatina nodded. That seemed logical enough—and it had a precedent. Ten years ago, Ghaunadaur’s cultists had laid siege to the Promenade for three long months. The attack had come from upriver, from the caverns to the northeast, closer to the Hall of Healing. The oozes the cultists commanded had been held at bay; not a single room or corridor of the temple had been overrun. Yet this likely wouldn’t deter them from trying again. If they were preparing for another attack on the Promenade, it made sense to set a trap for any spies they might send. Those attempting to infiltrate the temple would likely make their approach via the river that connected the Promenade to the other parts of Undermountain.
But why place the enchantment here? It would make more sense to position it either at the northernmost cavern that opened onto the river, or the southernmost. Or both. Not midway between the two, close to vulnerable areas of the Promenade.
And why, having ordered the enchantment to be put in place, seal the room off so no one could reach it?
Cavatina walked to the seco
nd door and tested its deadbolt. Like the first, it was immoveable. Sealed by magic.
“You disagreed with the glyph’s placement,” Cavatina said.
Horaldin nodded. “That too.”
Cavatina turned. “What else?”
“The high priestess ordered me to say nothing of what I’d inscribed here. To tell no one: neither the lay worshipers, nor the priestesses, nor the Protectors, nor even Battle-mistress Rylla.”
“The very people who would need to be aware of something that might draw Ghaunadaur’s cultists to this area, in order that they could be captured or eliminated.”
“Exactly.”
Cavatina frowned. “How did she explain the need for secrecy?”
“She didn’t. It seemed to me she couldn’t—and that this frustrated her. When I pressed her, it turned into an argument.”
“Do you have any idea why she chose this spot?”
“Cast a divination. Search for magic.”
Cavatina did. To her magically enhanced vision, the stone wall became as insubstantial as mist. Her body started to tingle. It felt as if something were trying to draw her into the wall—or rather, beyond the wall. Startled, she stepped back. “What is it? An illusory wall?”
“You can’t inscribe a glyph on an illusion. The walls are real enough.” He rapped his knuckles against the spot she’d just been viewing, hard enough to make a knocking sound. “At least, to me they are. But there’s a portal here—one that can only be used by drow.”
“How did you figure that out?”
“Some time after the high priestess dismissed me—when I was certain she’d be gone—I returned and communed with the walls. They described a ‘hole’ that would take drow ‘elsewhere.’ That was clue enough.”
Cavatina frowned. “I’ve patrolled every cavern, hallway, and chamber of the Promenade. Including this one. There wasn’t a portal here before.”
“No. The high priestess must have opened it.”
